Connecting

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “I’ve been seeing someone around you, kind of . . . watching over you. I think it’s your dad.”

  Something flashes in Donald’s gaze behind those thick glasses, but he says nothing.

  “It’s an older man, and he looks kind of like you. He’s got nice brown eyes, like you.”

  Those eyes, Donald’s father’s eyes, are grateful now, fastened right on her.“Thank you,” he tells Calla. “Tell him that I love him. And I’m always with him.”

  “He loves you,” she tells Donald,“and he’s always with you.”

  She waits for a burst of emotion from Donald at last, but he’s oddly stoic. “Anyone could say that about anyone who’s passed.”

  All those years of pain at the hands of cruel classmates— no wonder he’s unwilling to trust. He probably thinks she’s setting him up. And why wouldn’t he?

  “Tell him his mother’s going to love the cutting board.”

  Calla shakes her head slightly at the spirit, not understanding. “Just tell him,” Donald’s father says. “He’ll know.”

  “Your father says your mother’s going to love the cutting board, Donald.”

  He stares at her in silence, but the guarded expression has given way, just slightly, to a hint of emotion.

  “Tell him he should give it to her for her birthday, like he was planning to before he decided it wasn’t any good.”

  Calla echoes the words from father to son, and at last, Donald seems to grasp what’s happening.

  “He’s really here?” he asks, and she nods, and his cagey expression evaporates at last.

  “I’ve been fooling around in his workshop a little . . . trying to learn how to use some of his stuff,” Donald tells her. “I made this cutting board for my mom—it’s shaped like an angel, and she, you know, collects angel stuff, so . . . but I didn’t think it was very good.”

  “It is good. It’s beautiful. He gets his talent from his old man,” Donald’s father says affectionately.

  Calla repeats it with a grin, then realizes his father’s energy is fading.

  “He’s going,” she tells Donald. “But I’m sure he’ll be back. I’ve seen him around you before.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been wanting to tell you, but . . . I guess I was afraid to butt in.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Donald says. “It really helps to know he’s with me.”

  “Yeah.” She clears her throat. “I know what it’s like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Losing a parent. Missing them. Feeling like they’re just . . . gone. But your father isn’t, Donald. He watches over you all the time.”

  “I’m sure your father does, too.”

  “Oh, he’s in California, so . . . but my mom, she’s the one. She . . . died.”

  It’s still not easy to say, even after all this time.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. It’s hard.”

  “If my father’s around me,” Donald says, “then I’m sure your mother’s around you, too.”

  Calla swallows hard, manages a smile—and no tears.

  “Hey, do you play chess?”

  “No.”

  Donald looks disappointed. “Oh.”

  “But I’ve been wanting to learn,” she adds quickly, glancing over at the apple and the seat she abandoned near Willow and Sarita. She wasn’t in the mood to eat, or chat, anyway. “Maybe you can teach me.”

  “Sure. Sometime.”

  “How about now? You just happen to have a set handy, I see.”

  “My dad made it for me.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  She smiles, nods.

  “So, you want to play?” he asks.

  “I’d love to.”

  After dinner with her grandmother, Calla walks the few short blocks over to Willow’s to work on her math.

  “That was really sweet of you today, playing chess with Donald,” Willow tells her as she leads the way through the small house to the study.

  “Yeah, well . . . I felt like he needed a friend.”

  “I know. I feel like that a lot.”

  Calla touches Willow’s arm. “I hope you know you can talk to me, if you ever want to. I mean, we’re friends, right?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that I feel like I need a friend. I meant I feel like Donald does. But thank you. And, I’ll remember what you said. About being friends.”

  They share an awkward smile.

  “Want to get busy? I know you’ve got a lot to do to get ready for your trip to Florida tomorrow.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Let’s work on the floor, okay? The desk is too cluttered and I don’t feel like clearing a spot.”

  Calla glances at the desk, which holds a computer and piles upon piles of paper—junk mail, bills, newspapers. Althea York’s housekeeping skills are similar to Odelia’s, and Ramona’s, for that matter.

  Calla’s mom was the kind of person who had a place for everything. Piles of stuff would have driven her nuts.

  Is that why she left Lily Dale as soon as she was old enough to get out of town? Because she couldn’t handle the clutter?

  Ha. More likely, she couldn’t handle the supernatural stuff, considering she never mentioned it at all. Not once.

  I just wish I knew more about you, Mom. I thought I did, but you lived this whole life here with these people for eighteen years that I knew nothing about.

  Calla kneels beside Willow on the rug and they start spreading out their textbooks, notebooks, calculators, and the latest batch of worksheets from Mr. Bombeck.

  “Willow?” Althea calls from upstairs, sounding weak.

  “Mom? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just . . . can you help me for a second?”

  “Be right there,” Willow calls. To Calla, she says, “Wait here—I’ll be right back.”

  “She doesn’t sound good.”

  “She doesn’t feel good,” Willow says simply, and leaves the room.

  Left alone in the den, Calla rubs her tired eyes, wondering if she should tell Willow she really can’t do this tonight. Math is the last thing on her mind, and she knows it will show in the work, so she might as well . . .

  She frowns, realizing that there’s a sudden chill in the air and that the bracelet around her wrist seems to be unusually warm against her flesh.

  She looks around.

  She can’t see anybody.

  But, feeling the whisper of movement beside her, she knows someone is here with her.

  Again.

  This is starting to get old.

  Will she ever truly be alone in a room again?

  Something brushes her shoulder.

  Then rests there.

  A gentle hand.

  Calla goes absolutely still, not daring to turn her head, or even breathe, because she knows . . .

  Mom.

  It’s her. She’s certain.

  I’m with you. I love you.

  The words float into Calla’s head as clearly as if her mother had spoken them aloud.

  A sob escapes her throat and she turns, needing to glimpse her.

  But the room is empty, and the hand is gone, and for all she knows she imagined the whole damned thing.

  No.

  I didn’t see her, I didn’t even hear her—not really, not out loud.

  But she touched me. It was real. She was here.

  Calla’s gaze falls on the computer on the desk.

  A few minutes ago when she looked at it, the screen was dark.

  Now it’s glowing.

  She goes over, sits in the chair, and pulls up the search engine.

  She types in

  Thomas Leolyn.

  The screen goes blank.

  Then it comes back with a long list of blue links.

  Of course. There are probably dozens of Thomas Leolyns in the world. Hundreds, even.

  Calla clicks on the first.

  The site belongs to a
newspaper in Portland.

  Portland . . . Maine or Oregon?

  Before she can figure that out, she finds herself staring at a black-and-white close-up photo of the man she saw in Gene-seo the other night . . . and in her room, and in the woods.

  It’s him.

  On the first hit.

  With a trembling hand, Calla scrolls down.

  And finds herself looking at an obituary.

  Tom Leolyn—Darrin Yates—died last June in an unsolved murder.

  Stunned, she reads, and rereads, the short article.

  I’m not crazy. I really can see ghosts. I saw his—today and last night and at Mom’s funeral back in July.

  And that’s when the shocking truth hits her, hard.

  Tom couldn’t have killed Mom. He died before she did.

  So it was someone else.

  Someone wearing a gold signet ring.

  TWENTY

  Friday, October 5

  8:03 a.m.

  “Hey, Calla . . .”

  On her solo walk to school after yet another restless night, she turns and is relieved to see Jacy behind her, hurrying along Dale Drive.

  Waiting for him to catch up, Calla notes that for a change, the sun is shining against a dazzling blue sky, a breathtaking backdrop for the hodgepodge of red-and-gold foliage. It’s a perfect day—weatherwise, at least.

  But Calla is sagging under the burden of her shocking discovery about Darrin Yates’s fate, and Jacy is the only one she dares confide in.

  “I got your messages when I got home last night—all four of them,” he says as he reaches her, “but it was too late to call you back.”

  “Where were you?” she asks, remembering that he wasn’t in school yesterday. His face looks drawn, and the circles under his eyes are possibly deeper and darker than the ones under her own.

  “I was down in Jamestown. We had a court hearing yesterday. About the adoption.”

  For the moment, Calla’s own troubles evaporate. She lays a hand on Jacy’s arm. “How did it go?”

  “Great.” He shrugs and kicks a stone, hard. “My parents aren’t going to contest it, if that’s what you consider great. I’m not sure if I do or not.”

  She doesn’t know what to say, so she just squeezes his arm as they start walking again.

  “So what did you want?” Jacy asks. “When you called.”

  Calla’s grim reality slams back. In a rush, she tells him about Darrin being dead.

  Jacy stops walking, stunned. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize he was in Spirit when we saw him that night.”

  “I know. I didn’t either. What do we do about it?”

  He shakes his head, looking thoughtful.

  “I mean, his parents deserve to know, don’t they?”

  “Definitely. Except . . . they left last week to spend the winter in Arizona.”

  “Do you know how to reach them?”

  “I’m sure the police do.”

  “The police!”

  “Notifying the Yateses that their son is dead isn’t our job, Calla.”

  No. She supposes it isn’t, and she’s relieved about that, considering the hostile confrontation she and Jacy had with the Yateses a few weeks ago. Still . . .

  “We’re the ones who have to tell the police, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Can we do it anonymously? I really don’t want the Yateses hating me any more than they already do. We could mail the police a copy of the obituary, right?”

  “I guess so,” Jacy says again.

  “I’ll do it,” she tells him. But there’s no rush. It’s just going to have to wait until she gets back from Florida.

  “So Darrin had nothing to do with your mom’s death after all?”

  “I guess not. I mean, he obviously had something to do with her life, and . . . what if he was murdered, too? By whoever killed my mother? I mean, how can they both have died so young, suddenly, so close together? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No,” Jacy agrees, “it doesn’t.”

  “Now all I can think about is the signet ring in my dream.

  I’m thinking that the heart pierced by three daggers must have been some sort of psychic shorthand but I can’t figure out what it might mean, can you?”

  Jacy shakes his head.

  “Maybe when I’m on the plane later, I’ll be able to think with a clearer head.”

  “So you’re still going to Florida today?”

  She nods. “I have to. Now more than ever.”

  “What about the police?”

  “You mean, telling them about Darrin? There’s no rush.”

  “There is if he was murdered, too. That means whoever killed him—and your mom—is still out there.”

  “I know. I have to get my mother’s laptop and see what the two of them were e-mailing about.”

  “I think you should leave that to the police, too.”

  “No way.” Calla shakes her head. “If the police get involved, my father gets involved. And if my father gets involved, I’m out of here.”

  “Well, maybe that’s for the best. If you’re in danger here, you need to leave.”

  “I am. At least, today. I have to leave school early to catch my flight, so I won’t be in math. Can you get the homework for me?”

  “Yeah. But Calla—I mean, come on. This isn’t a good idea.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Any of it. I just wish you weren’t going.” He stops walking and pulls her into his arms.

  “I know. I have to, though. You get that, right?”

  He nods. “But if anything happens to you . . .”

  “It won’t. What can happen? I’m going to get Mom’s laptop, bring it back here, and see what’s what.”

  “And depending on what you find out, we’ll go to the police.”

  “Only if we have to.”

  “We’re talking about murder. We have to.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re stubborn.” He shakes his head. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  She smiles faintly. “Maybe.”

  A sudden gust off the lake flutters glorious golden leaves down around them, and the look in Jacy’s eyes flutters Calla’s heart.

  With all that’s going on—let alone the fact that it’s broad daylight in public—this isn’t the ideal time or place for him to kiss her, but who cares? His lips brush Calla’s and his hands flatten on her upper back, holding her close against him, and all logic seems to have been whisked from her head on the sweet-scented October breeze.

  She smiles wistfully at him. “I’m going to miss you this weekend.”

  “Same here.”

  “I’ll have my cell phone with me—there’s no service around here, but it’ll work down there. I can give you the number, so you can call me if you want. And I can call you, too. If you want.”

  “Yeah.” He takes her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. “That would be good.”

  Hands clasped, they begin walking again.

  After a few steps, Calla senses a presence and glances over her shoulder. Is it Darrin, back to haunt her again?

  No.

  In the distance, she can see Evangeline trailing along behind them, on her way to school. Her head is bent.

  Calla’s heart sinks.

  Did she see Jacy and Calla kissing?

  Possibly.

  Probably.

  But what am I supposed to do? Calla wonders helplessly.

  She herself is crazy about Jacy—and he seems to feel the same way.

  Evangeline will just have to deal.

  Calla loathes the callousness of that thought, even if it is the only rational way to look at the situation.

  And she loathes the thought of losing Jacy far more.

  Tampa, Florida

  7:30 p.m.

  “Calla!”

  She hears Lisa’s squeal long before she catches sight of her friend’s familiar honey-blond head in the sea of strang
ers— dead and alive—crowding the Tampa airport terminal.

  “Lis’!” Enveloped in Lisa’s arms, Calla suddenly finds herself too choked up to speak.

  “It’s so good to have you here. Here, gimme your bag.”

  Calla nods mutely, allowing Lisa to take her carry-on.

  “Come on, let’s go find the baggage claim.”

  At last, Calla finds her voice. “Oh, we don’t have to. I didn’t check anything.”

  “This is it?” Lisa eyes the small duffel dubiously. “For an entire weekend?”

  “That’s it.” Calla smiles at her expression, knowing Lisa would probably have a full suitcase and a hanging garment bag.

  “I guess we’re good to go, then. Come on.” She dials her cell phone as she leads the way toward the exit, past towering palm trees in planters against plate-glass windows revealing the coral-streaked sky at Florida dusk.

  “I found her,” Lisa says into the phone. “Meet us next to the arrivals door.”

  Calla smiles, eager to be reunited with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, too. They, and their home, were such a huge part of her life here.

  With that thought comes the memory of all the times she shared with Kevin, and the realization that she’s about to come face-to-face with him again, too.

  She only hopes he didn’t bring his girlfriend, Annie, home with him this time. Jacy or no Jacy, Calla isn’t ready to see Kevin with his new love.

  “You look great, Calla.” Lisa hangs up her phone and tucks it into the back pocket of skimpy white denim shorts that bare her tanned legs and polished toes in sandals.

  Walking along next to her, Calla feels totally washed out.

  “Come on, you’re just being nice.”

  “No! I love your haircut.”

  “Thanks, but . . .”

  “And did you lose weight? You look even skinnier than usual.”

  She shrugs, knowing she probably did. Her appetite has really taken a nosedive with all that’s been going on lately.

  “I’ll have to fatten you up while you’re here,” Lisa says. “When was the last time you had, like, conch fritters? I bet they don’t have them up in Lily Dale, do they?”

  “Are you kidding?” Calla realizes her mouth is watering at the thought of one of her favorite Florida treats. Conch fritters, gator bites, fresh Gulf seafood, key lime pie . . . Yum.